how funny to be a human

a poem, 12/20/10


It is odd, isn't it, to slip feet into shoes?

to run a comb through hair that grows from this, a head.

It is a curious thing to clean teeth belonging to me, 

to know that this is the only set I have left, so brush well.

Hands for grasping at the end of these arms,

and, a ring! on one of these fingers-- saying

I belong with that human over there--

Now that is almost too much.

I (I am an I!) feel air currents in this dwelling,

I smell the food from supper.

I feel tired.

Restrained in a body, confined to both time and space,

with a pen and a voice,

I am dust and breath of God made woman.

Finite. Perishable goods.